The Mind Map
Saturday, 27 September 2008
Words of wisdom listened to with intent.
Long-haired archer of a warrior clan
Twangs his bow, summoning the Almighty plan.
Sacred vows of golden crown
Upheld by valourous arms of renown.
On a bed of arrows, let to die,
A grandsire of his own warrior tribe:
A summons to death in the art of war,
Utmost grief held by the call of Karma.
Piercing the earth,
Quenching the thirst.
Valour is in the killing of those you love
And honour is in the respect of those you hate.
Sweet father, seeking sweet vengeance-
For a son pierced, smeared in brethren blood,
Holding a chariot wheel in self-defence.
- Shrieks of helpless madness out of hopeless love.
"Son", he shall be called no more.
Deep surge of fierce, bloodied, wounded hate.
Stung, shattered, raging on,
Twanging his bow, radiating fury-
Summoning a battle-fear in the foe.
Ruthless war in a ruthless world.
"Duty is justice" - laws carved in a land of old.
"I am the long haired archer of warrior-clan.
After war comes peace in this aancient land.
I am humble protector of my men,
Set on this earth by God's fateful pen.
Listen for peace's silent echo
In the twang of my sacred, fiery bow.
I am the end of what had begun-
Mighty Kurukshetra was fought and won."
Wednesday, 3 September 2008
Psychadelic lotuses float
Beneath diamondaic dew drops.
Pink and white peace-makers
Exist on endless shores
Of transparent water.
A little firefly stumbles into its heart
And lovingly the petals cuurl about a flourescent light.
Ripples of water in a cool breeze
Help the firefly glow dimly as it dies out
with a flutter,
And the light at the heart of the pink-white lotus
The petals drops open in a silent
Ode to a glow.
02/09/08 - I can't believe fireflies are on the brink of extinction!!!! They are too pretty to die! like little tinkerbells in the sky.
With plastic bags, food and sewage leaking
Around its sturdy, useless walls.
A dark skeletal hand
Plucks a week-old packet of chips and food
And stores the plastic bags
In a ragged, torn knapsack-
Nimbly picks up filth
As though it is precious life.
Glances thrown into
the depths of a stone garbage bin
Hoping to find a living
And a bony, skeletal leg walks by-
* * * * * * *
Eyes turn away
A meaninless, senseless poem written on the spur of the moment, but sounds beautiful (funny how sounds are beautiful- that's called synesthesia)
Have the oceans seen you cry?
Has the land let you pass slowly by?
Does the fire in your heart deny
What empty space alone can know-
The sole cause for that pale glow
Is a hope beyond tomorrow?
Let a little flower slowly bloom
In the silent whispers of the night's gloom.
There is a flicker that kindles your soul
And you wait on forever.
I forgot a language yesterday, when I could not place a letter.
A little bit of luck while writing
A little talent and a little knowledge
Sunken in a star of perceptionis what gives a light...
Like a torch on fire in the dark, dark night
And I cannt write in the language I forgot:
A paradox of English.
Maybe my language is not a language,
But a culture of mixed identity.
Yet why should I identify with that which I speak?
I am what I feel and not what I utter.
Yet my utterance is my feeling and my thought-
And my language (or languages)
Becomes my world.
I wrote this probably inspired by marsh languages, and partilly because I didn't remember a basic sanskrit letter: "ae"!!! This was just before our first CA! (not too sure of the date)